liiii 


M9-NRLF 


SONGS  AND  POEMS 


SONGS  AND  POEMS 

BY 
JOHN  JAY  CHAPMAN 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 
1919 


Copyright,  1918,  1919,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 
Published  March,  1919 


COPYRIGHT,  ms,  BY  THE  OUTLOOK  COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT,  1917,  BY  DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT,  1917.  1918.  BY  THE  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY  COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT,  1917,  1918.  1919,  BY  THE  NEW  YORK  HERALD  CO. 

COPYRIGHT,  1917,  BY  THE  YALE  PUBLISHING  ASSN.,  INC. 

COPYRIGHT,  1918.  BY  NEW  YORK  TIMES  COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT,  1918,  i9i»,  BY  THE  VANITY  FAIR  PUB.  co.,  INC. 


THE  SCRIBNER  PRESS 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

SONG  3 

THE  CHRISTENING  5 

SONG  (AFTER  RONSARD)  7 

THE   POET   ORDERS   HIS   SEPULCHRE   (AFTER 

RONSARD)  8 

LINES    IN   A    COPY    OF    VIRGIL  15 

SAPPHO'S  LAST  SONG  16 

ARETHUSA  17 

REVERY  18 

A    PRAYER  19 

THE    KNEISEL    QUARTET  21 

CHAMBER    MUSIC  23 

THE    HUDSON  26 

MOONLIGHT  27 

HARVEST    TIME  31 


401040 


CONTENTS 

THE    SWALLOWS 

OCTOBER 

AUTUMN    DEWS 

TREES    IN    AUTUMN 

TAPS    AT    WEST    POINT 

LINES    ON    THE    DEATH    OF    BISMARCK 

1914 

HEROES 

TO    A    DOG 

IN    TIME    OF    WAR 

MAY,    1917 

ODE    ON    THE    SAILING    OF    OUR    TROOPS    FOR 
FRANCE 

A    WAR    WEDDING 

RETROSPECTION 

OUR    SAILOR 

AUGUSTUS  PEABODY  GARDNER 

vi 


CONTENTS 

PAOB 

MAY,    1918  76 

LINES    READ    AT    THE    NEW    YORK    CITY    HALL 

MEETING  ON    LAFAYETTE    DAY,    1918  79 

THE    ARMISTICE  82 

ROOSEVELT  83 

THE    MORAL    OF    HISTORY  86 


SONGS    AND    POEMS 


SONG 

OLD  Farmer  Oats  and  his  son  Ned 
They  quarreled  about  the  old  mare's  bed, 
And  some  hard  words  by  each  were  said, 
Sing,  sing,  ye  all ! 

Chorus 

Let  every  man  stand  for  what  is  in  his  hand,  say  I, 
Let  every  man  give  to  keep  a  man  alive,  say  I, 
For  it's  all  one  when  all's  done, 
Ye'll  keep  none  when  death's  come,  say  I ! 

II 

Then  Oats  he  bade  the  boy  be  hanged; 
So  up  he  stormed  and  out  he  banged; 
And  away  to  the  heath  and  the  wars  he's  ganged. 
Sing,  sing,  ye  all !— Chorus. 


Ill 

Old  Farmer  Oats  with  his  bent  head 
Is  ever  thinking  of  his  son  Ned, 
And  whether  the  lad  be  alive  or  dead, 
Sing,  sing,  ye  all  \— Chorus. 

IV 

And  every  beggar  and  every  thief 
May  go  to  the  old  man  for  relief; 
For  love  is  love  and  grief  is  grief 
Sing,  sing,  ye  all ! 

Chorus 

Let  every  man  stand  for  what  is  in  his  hand,  say  I, 
Let  every  man  give  to  keep  a  man  alive,  say  I, 
For  it's  all  one  when  all's  done, 
Ye'll  keep  none  when  death's  come,  say  I ! 


THE    CHRISTENING 

evening  wore  on  with  the  Judge  in  the  chair 
*      While  song  after  song  sought  the  rafter; 
We  crowned  him  with  holly  to  match  his  white  hair 
And  redden  the  bloom  of  our  laughter: 

Chorus 

For  the  Doctor,  the  Parson,  His  Honor  and  me 
Were  waking  the  baby  that  soon  was  to  be. 

Around  went  the  bowl  while  the  doctor  could  stand, 
Around  while  the  lawyer  could  reason, 

Till  speechless  and  legless  they  lay  hand  in  hand, 
Conversing  on  subjects  in  season. — Chorus. 

The  Parson  like  Bacchus  was  draining  a  cup 

('Twas  the  wineglass  he  smashed  in  his  joy,  Sir,) 

When  the  maids  at  the  door  made  the  topers  look  up, 
"O  Master,  O  Judge,  it's  a  boy,  Sir ! "— Chorus. 


"A  boy !"  cried  the  Parson,  "Ye  pagans  come  down! 

All  Christians  shall  sing  and  be  thankful. 
Go  fetch  us  the  child  in  his  christening  gown; 

Egad,  but  we'll  give  him  a  tankful!" — Chorus. 

"For  the  Church  and  the  Law  and  all  medical  aid 

Are  here  represented  in  toddy; 
The  child  in  a  christening  dish  shall  be  laid 

And  good  liquor  poured  over  his  body." — Chorus. 

The  maids  gave  a  squeal  could  be  heard  half  a  mile 
And  straight  locked  the  doors  on  the  crew,  Sir; 

And  so  to  our  pleasures  they  left  us  a  while. 
It's  little  that  women  can  do,  Sir ! 

Chorus 

But  the  Doctor,  the  Parson,  His  Honor  and  me 
Devoted  the  night  to  that  little  babee. 


SONG    AFTER    RONSARD 

("Fais  rafraichir  mon  vw") 

SINK  the  wine  within  the  spring, 
And  cool  it  deep  and  long: 
Send  Jeanne  to  me,  and  let  her  bring 

Her  lute,  to  chant  a  song. 
Three  shall  dance  and  one  shall  sing, 

Call  Barbe,  that  in  the  whirl 
Her  heavy  tresses  she  may  fling 
Like  a  mad  Tuscan  girl. 

See !  the  sun  has  dipped  his  head, 

We  may  not  live  till  morning; 
Fill  my  cup,  boy,  till  the  bead 

Run  over  with  no  warning. 
Curse  the  dolt  that  slaves  to  get, 

Curse  doctor  and  divine; 
My  wits  were  never  sober  yet 

Till  they  were  washed  with  wine ! 


THE    POET    ORDERS    HIS 
SEPULCHRE 

(After  Ronsard) 

YE  caverns,  and  ye  rills 
That  from  the  beetling  hills 
Down  every  rocky  wall 
Glide,  gleam,  and  fall; 
Ye  woods  and  streams  around, 
Where  poplar'd  isles  abound, 
And  glistening  myrtles  throng, — 
List  to  my  song. 

When  Fate  and  heavenly  power 
Forecast  my  dying  hour, 

Enchanted  with  the  ray 

Of  common  day, 
I  wish  not  that  Pretence 
Of  Grandeur  or  Expense 

Shall  build  some  marble  gloom 

About  my  tomb. 


8 


But  let  a  green  tree  wave 
His  arms  above  my  grave, 

And  be  my  body  laid 

Within  that  shade: 
Thus  from  my  corpse  below 
Ivy  shall  climb  and  grow, 

To  canopy  that  ground 

In  many  a  round. 

The  coiling  grapevine  there 
Shall  wreath  my  sepulchre, 

And  all  its  leaves  beccme 

A  fragrant  gloom. 
And  yearly  to  these  rocks 
Shall  shepherds  bring  their  flocks, 

And  by  my  dripping  wall 

Hold  festival. 

First,  having  paid  the  price 

Of  some  quaint  sacrifice, 
They  to  the  isles  and  trees 
Speak  words  like  these: — 


"Ah  happy  tomb,  whose  fate 
"Tis  to  commemorate 

The  name  of  one,  whose  worth 

Fills  all  the  earth. 
Who  in  his  life  was  such 
As  envy  might  not  touch; 

Who  fawned  not  on  the  great, 

For  all  their  state, 

"Nor  dabbled  in  the  lore 
By  Wisdom  shunned  of  yore, 

Nor  in  the  divinations 

Of  Pagan  nations. 
But  with  his  songs  divine 
He  lured  the  Sacred  Nine, 

Till  all  might  hear  and  see 

Their  minstrelsy. 


10 


"He  drew  so  sweet  a  note 
From  the  lyre  that  he  smote, 

That  our  whole  countryside 

Was  sanctified. 
And  manna  from  the  skies 
Falls  ever  where  he  lies; 

And  summer  nights  diffuse 

Celestial  dews. 

"The  murmuring  river  clear 
Circles  his  grassy  bier, 

Weaving, — like  walls  around,- 

Verdure  and  sound. 
And  we  who  know  his  fame, 
His  glory  here  proclaim; 

His  honor  here  prolong 

With  gift  and  song." 


11 


And  now  the  little  band 
Turn,  and  with  pious  hand 

Pour  out  libations  nine 

Of  milk  and  wine, 
O'er  me,  who  at  that  hour 
Lie  in  Elysium's  bower, 

Where  every  spirit  blest 

Doth  take  his  rest. 

Nor  hail,  nor  snow,  nor  rain 
Disturb  that  bright  domain, 

Nor  bolt,  that  from  on  high 

Bursts  from  the  sky. 
But  the  immortal  sheen 
Of  leaves  is  ever  seen; 

And  deathless  blossoming 

Of  happy  spring. 


Ambition,  strife,  and  care 
Are  banished  from  that  air, 

And  wars,  by  kings  designed, 

To  rule  mankind. 
There  all  like  brothers  true 
Their  ancient  deeds  renew, 

Living  in  love  and  faith, 

Even  after  death. 

There,  there,  my  soul  shall  know 
The  pang  of  Sappho's  woe ! 

There  clangs,  with  dreaded  fire, 

Alcseus'  lyre; 
And  harmonies  resound 
From  every  island  mound 

Where  sages  pause  to  drink 

Song  at  its  brink. 


13 


Yea  distant  echoes  wake 
Across  the  Infernal  Lake, 

And  e'en  the  damned  receive 

Some  sweet  reprieve. 
Beneath  that  heavy  charm 
Ixion  takes  no  harm, 

And  Tantalus  is  freed 

From  thirst  and  greed. 
The  poet's  voice  hath  sent 
To  every  mind  content, 

And  poured  across  his  lyre 

To  every  human  heart  the  heart's  desire. 


14 


LINES  IN  A   COPY   OF   VIRGIL 

CRUMBLING  on  Tiber's  edge 
^-^  Lie  columns  sunk  in  sedge. 

A  bird  upon  the  spray 

Carols  and  flits  away 

Across  the  river. 
Only  what  soars  and  sings, 
Only  what  flows  and  springs, 

Passing  on  wheels  as  light 

As  fancy  or  the  spirit's  flight — 
Endures  forever. 


15 


SAPPHO'S    LAST     SONG 

HT^HIS  was  the  summer  whose  gradual  splendor 

*       Burned  the  meridian  while  the  deep  sea 
Whispering,  murmuring,  watched  the  surrender, 
Cradled  my  union,  my  loved  one,  with  thee. 

Mute  was  the  music  and  mystic  the  psean 
That  skirted  the  magical  days  as  they  fled. 

These  were  the  nights  when  the  starred  empyrean 
Bent  o'er  the  passion  it  silently  fed. 

Turn,  ancient  Earth !  as  with  slumbering  motion 
Thou  steerest  thy  course  through  the  spaces  divine, 

The  dome  of  thy  stars,  and  the  caves  of  thine  ocean 
Re-echo  forever  the  love  that  was  mine. 


16 


ARETHUSA 

MY  heart  was  emptied  like  a  mountain  pool 
That  sinks  in  earthquake  to  some  pit  below, 
As  thou  did'st  leave  me.     All  my  waters  cool 
Burst  from  their  basin  when  I  saw  thee  go; — 
O'erflowed,  leaped  out,  and  ran  beneath  the  ground, 
Poured  with  a  surging  wave  in  search  of  thee ! 
Where'er  thou  art,  those  waters  will  abound; 
But  I  must  wait  till  life  come  back  to  me. 


17 


REVERY 

HAVE  a  garden, — weeds  paradise  call  it; 
The  moles  hold  the  paths  in  fee; 

The  wild  creepers  rave 

O'er  the  flowers'  grave, 
O'er  box-row  and  nodding  pear-tree. 
The  heart-broken,  moss-covered  railings  that  wall  it, 
Have  made  an  arbor  for  me; 

And  I  lie  in  an  angle 

Of  the  dappled  tangle 
And  dream  of  Energy. 


18 


A    PRAYER 

GOD  when  the  heart  is  warmest, 

And  the  head  is  clearest, 
Give  me  to  act: 

To  turn  the  purposes  thou  formest 
Into  fact. 

O  God,  when  what  is  dearest 
Seems  most  dear, 
And  the  path  before  lies  straight, 
With  neither  Chance  nor  Fate 
In  my  career, — 

Then  let  me  act.     The  wicket  gate 
In  sight,  let  me  not  wait,  not  wait. 

We  do  not  always  fight. 

There  comes  a  dull 

And  anxious  watching.     After  night 

Follows  dim  dawn  before  the  day  is  full. 

But  there's  a  time  to  speak,  as  to  be  dumb. 

O  God,  when  mine  shall  come, 


19 


And  I  put  forth 

My  strength  for  blame  or  praise, 

Blow  Thou  the  fire  in  my  heart's  hearth 

Into  a  blaze — 

(Who  kindled  it  but  Thou  ?) 

And  let  me  feel  upon  that  first  of  days 

As  I  feel  now. 


THE   KNEISEL   QUARTET 

(Lines  read  at  the  dinner  given  to  its  members  upon  their  retirement) 

HAPPY  the  man  who  with  steadfast  devotion 
Walks  through  the  turmoil  where  passions  are  rife, 
Feeding  one  flame  of  enduring  emotion, 
Bearing  unshattered  the  urn  of  his  life. 

Bright  o'er  the  bay  the  gay  sailboats  are  dancing, 
Cutting  like  birds  through  the  waters  of  youth; 

Bold  to  the  fair  come  the  paladins  prancing, 
Sidling  and  eyeing  the  prizes  of  Truth. 

Ah,  in  the  press,  in  the  clash  of  the  onset, 

How  many  strong  riders  and  sailors  are  thrown ! 

The  gala  of  morning  is  past,  and  at  sunset 

With  wrecks  of  bright  talent  life's  ocean  is  strown. 

Few, — the  unswerving,  the  slaves  of  endeavor, — 
Beat  homeward  in  trim,  gallop  in  to  our  cheers; 

The  prizes  they  win  are  our  prizes  forever, 

Though  earned  with  their  labor  and  bought  with 
their  tears. 


Then  welcome  the  mind  that  through  sheer  concen 
tration 

Imprisons  the  world  in  a  gem  or  a  strain, — 
Throws  open  our  soul  to  the  rays  of  creation 

And  gives  us  a  glimpse  of  life's  morning  again. 

O  servants  of  Art,  'tis  a  hard  road  ye  follow; 

Here  poets  and  thinkers  and  mystics  have  trod: 
Rough,  upward,  and  steep  are  the  paths  of  Apollo, 

But  round  them  shines  ever  the  light  of  the  god. 

Then  chant  we  a  hymn  for  these  sons  of  the  lyre, 
How  humble  soever  the  psean  we  raise; 

Our  wreath  must  be  laid  by  the  altar  whose  fire 
Has  waked  us  to  gratitude,  friendship  and  praise. 

April  21,  1917. 


22 


CHAMBER    MUSIC 

(Lines  read  at  the  dinner  given  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  E.  J.  de  Coppet  on 
the  twenty-fifth  anniversary  of  their  musical  gatherings  and 
the  tenth  anniversary  of  the  Flonzaley  Quartet) 

QILENCE:  the  sunset  gilds  the  frozen  ground, 
^  But  here  within  all's  curtained;  stands  are  set 
In  the  wide  salon  where  gilt  chairs  abound, 
And  eager  listeners  wait.     The  band  is  met 
Whose  tuning  sheds  a  cheerful  hum  around: 
Prophetic  notes !    The  tapers  brighten  at  the  sound. 

The  scattered  sheets  of  music  on  the  floor 

Reflect  a  lustre  from  the  yellow  flame. 

My  sight  dissolves.  .  .  .     Lo,  Haydn  at  the  door 

Enters  like  some  stiff  angel  from  his  frame, 

Bearing  the  bundle  of  his  latest  score 

Which  he  distributes,  smiling  to  the  blessed  four. 


Haydn  is  dead,  you  say  ?     He  dies  no  more 
So  long  as  these  shall  meet.     A  magic  wand 
Brings  the  old  Master  through  the  shadowy  door, 
And  upright  in  the  midst  his  soul  doth  stand, 
While  through  the  chords  his  sunny  force  doth  pour. 
Ah  Haydn,  hast  thou  truly  ever  lived  before  ? 

O  intimate  acquaintance !     When  we  meet 

The  hearts  of  old  musicians,  there  is  shown 

A  conversation  deeper  and  more  sweet 

Than  all  save  saints  or  lovers  e'er  have  known. 

Is  there  an  earthly  friendship  so  complete 

As  this,  that  in  a  heaven-born  passion  hath  its  seat  ? 

The  gods  and  half-gods  meet  us  everywhere 

But  are  at  home  in  Music.     There  they  live 

In  privacy:  Apollo  suns  his  hair, 

And  Aphrodite  to  the  stars  doth  give 

The  more-than-mortal  eyes  that  almost  stare, 

So  wide  they  are,  so  open  and  so  unaware. 


And  while  the  gods  do  strum  and  tune  a  lay 

To  please  their  godships, — there  comes  creeping  in 

de  Coppet  with  his  crew  to  steal  away 

The  sacred  fire.     The  trembling  violin, 

Bratsche  and  cello,  which  his  pirates  play 

Bear  the  bright  flame, — yes,  undiminished  reconvey. 

We  are  those  guests  who  knew  the  joy  sincere 
Of  that  Promethean  plunder;  and  to-night 
Are  wiser  for  the  start  of  many  a  tear 
That  chased  surprised  beauty  in  her  flight, 
And  happier  for  those  hours  of  inward  cheer, 
The  thought  of  which,  dear  hosts  of  many  days,  doth 
draw  us  here. 


THE    HUDSON 

ATHED  in  a  dying  light 

The  far  out-stretching  valley  lies 
Beneath  the  mingling  veils  of  day  and  night; 

Fruit  trees  and  gardens,  woodland  and  champaign, 
Paths,  lawns  and  labyrinths — a  Paradise. 

The  mountains  darken,  and  the  clear 

Black  waters  at  their  base  appear 
Sending  a  last  bright  message  from  the  skies. 
It  floods  the  all-but-lost  Elysian  plain 

Where  knoll  and  bower 

Shimmer  and  peep,  till  the  soft  twilight  hour, — 
To  add  the  magic  of  a  new  surprise, — 
Washes  them  into  silver  gloom  again. 


MOONLIGHT 


T^HE  evening  air  exhales  a  spicy  scent, 

*    The  robin  warbles,  and  the  thrush  replies; 
And  on  the  terrace  a  tall  regiment 
Of  lillies  and  of  larkspur  seem  to  rise 
In  the  last  glow  of  the  transparent  skies, 
And  shed  a  radiance  hitherto  unseen. 
Distant,  and  yet  distinct,  come  joyous  cries 
And  twilight  echoes,  few  and  far  between, — 
Children  at  play, — dogs  barking, — fairies  on  the  green. 

II 

The  shadows  deepen;  in  the  bushy  lanes 

The  fireflies  brighten  and  the  crickets  cheep: 

And  hark,  an  owl !   how  dolorous  the  strains, 

At  which  the  field-mouse  to  his  bed  doth  creep. 

The  birds,  the  trees,  the  flowers  have  dropped  to  sleep; 

The  noises  from  the  village  float  no  more; 

Night  doth  enwrap  the  world  in  slumber  deep. 

And  while  upon  reposeful  gloom  we  pore, 

Behold,  a  ghostly  glow  that  was  not  there  before ! 


Ill 

Slowly,  with  laboring  steps,  doth  she  emerge: 

Like  a  stout  shallop  in  the  foaming  seas 

She  holds  her  prow  against  the  fleecy  surge, 

And  steers  between  the  cliffs  of  giant  trees, 

Rounding  the  headlands,  winning  by  degrees, 

Till  she  outpours  the  fulness  of  her  beam, 

Unrolling  all  her  silver  treasuries 

On  hamlet,  plain,  and  mountain,  farm  and  stream, 

With  inky  shadows  that  make  light  more  glorious  seem. 

IV 

Reason  dissolves  in  moonlight;  for  the  moon, 

Passing  the  porch  of  man's  dilated  eyes, 

Doth  cast  him  straight  into  a  kind  of  swoon: 

She,  while  the  wretch  in  a  delirium  lies, 

Unveils  her  passions,  longings,  rhapsodies, — 

Shows  him  a  crystal  sea  that  floods  the  space 

Between  the  darkling  earth  and  liquid  skies; 

And  bids  him  enter  her  cool  resting-place 

That  clasps  the  whole  of  nature  in  one  bright  embrace. 


She  would  persuade  him  it  is  everywhere, 
Disguised  beneath  the  blaze  of  Phoebus'  ray, 
Alive  in  the  illuminated  air, 
Imprisoned  in  the  glamour  of  the  day, — 
Which  by  her  art  she  weaves  and  shreds  away, 
Using  such  magic  that  each  blade  of  grass, 
Bush,  mead  and  brake  her  potency  betray, 
Yea,  stand  like  sentinels  to  watch  her  pass, 
And  toward  her  naked  truth  hold  up  earth's  looking- 
glass. 

VI 

Alas,  in  vain  she  reasons;  men  reply 

That  Phoebus  gave  her  all  the  wealth  she  had, 

And  clepe  her  sacred  wisdom  sorcery: 

Those  who  believe  her  are  accounted  mad. 

And  therefore  is  her  visage  ever  sad; 

And  as  she  climbs  she  suffers,  for  she  feels 

The  arrows  of  the  over-weening  lad 

Falling  in  deadly  showers  at  her  heels. 

She  fears  the  lightning  of  those  ever-burning  wheels. 


VII 

Yet  in  her  flight  she  leaves  her  realm  behind 

To  poets  and  to  lovers,  whose  wide  eyes, 

Dilated  by  the  moonlight  of  the  mind, 

See  every  object  in  a  mad  disguise, — 

Within  a  tide  between  the  earth  and  skies; 

And  every  common  bank  or  brook  or  flower 

To  their  ecstatic  questioning  replies, 

Glows,  throbs  and  moves  with  a  mysterious  power,- 

As  in  a  moonlit  garden  at  the  trysting  hour. 


30 


HARVEST    TIME 

DEHOLD,  the  harvest  is  at  hand; 
-•-^     And  thick  on  the  encircling  hills 
The  sheaves  like  an  encampment  stand, 
Making  a  martial  fairy-land 

That  half  the  landscape  fills. 
The  plains  in  colors  brightly  blent 

Are  burnished  by  the  standing  grain 
That  runs  across  a  continent. 

In  sheets  of  gold  or  silver  stain 

Or  red  as  copper  from  the  mine, 

The  oats,  the  barley,  and  the  buckwheat  shine. 

Autumn  has  pitched  his  royal  tent, 

And  set  his  banner  in  the  field; 
Where  blazes  every  ornament 

That  beamed  in  an  heraldic  shield. 
He  spreads  his  carpets  from  the  store 
Of  stuffs  the  richest  burghers  wore, 
When  velvet-robed,  and  studded  o'er 
With  gems,  they  faced  their  Emperor. 


31 


A  wind  is  in  the  laughing  grain 

That  bends  to  dodge  his  rough  caress, 
Knowing  the  rogue  will  come  again 

To  frolic  with  its  loveliness. 
And  in  the  highways  drifts  a  stream 

Of  carts,  of  cattle,  and  of  men; 
While  scythes  in  every  meadow  gleam, 

And  Adam  sweats  again. 

In  the  young  orchard  forms  are  seen 
With  throats  thrown  open  to  the  breeze, 

To  reap  the  rye  that  lies  between; 
And  sickles  hang  on  apple-trees, 

Half  hidden  in  the  glossy  leaves, 
And  pails  beside  the  reapers  lie; 

While  sturdy  yokels  toss  the  sheaves, 
And  hats  are  cocked  and  elbows  ply, 
And  blackbirds  rise  to  cloud  the  sky 
In  swarms  that  chatter  as  they  fly. 


From  field  to  field  each  shady  lane 
Is  strown  and  traced  with  wisps  of  hay, 

Where  gates  lie  open  to  the  wain 
That  creaks  upon  its  toiling  way. 

And  little  children,  dumb  with  pride, 

Upon  the  rocking  mountain  ride, 
While  anxious  parents  warn; 

And  farm-boys  guide  the  lazy  team 

Till  it  shall  stand  beneath  the  beam 

That  spans  the  gaping  barn. 

The  harvest  to  its  cavern  sinks, 

While  shafts  of  sunlight  probe  the  chinks 

And  fumes  of  incense  rise. 

Then,  as  the  farmers  turn  the  latch, 
Good-natured  Autumn  smiles  to  watch 

The  triumph  in  their  eyes. 

His  gifts,  from  many  a  groaning  load, 
Are  heaved  and  packed,  and  wheeled  and  stowed 
By  gnomes  that  hoard  the  prize. 
The  grist  of  a  celestial  mill, 
Which  man  has  harnessed  to  his  will, 
In  one  bright  torrent  falls  to  fill 

The  greedy  granaries. 


Beneath  that  annual  rain  of  gold 

Kingdoms  arise,  expand,  decay; 
Philosophers  their  mind  unfold 

And  poets  sing,  and  pass  away. 
Forever  turns  the  winnowing  fan: 
It  runs  with  an  eternal  force, 
As  run  the  planets  in  their  course 

Behind  the  life  of  man. 
Little  we  heed  that  silent  power, 

Save  as  the  gusty  chaff  is  whirled, 
When  Autumn  triumphs  for  an  hour, 

And  spills  his  riches  on  the  world. 


THE    SWALLOWS 

'"THE  hills  of  Camden  mile  on  mile 
•*      Fling  their  green  mantle  o'er  the  bay; 
The  dark  waves  dance  about  the  isle 

Where  we  have  nested  many  a  day. 
The  shadows  mount;  the  air  is  chill; 
Away! 

The  hermit  thrush  has  left  the  bed 
Where  late  his  giddy  music  shone, 

The  sumac  in  the  swamp  is  red, 
And  Autumn  binds  her  sandals  on. 

The  season  wanes;  summer's  at  end. 
Away! 


35 


OCTOBER 

as  the  dew  it  kindles  on  the  spray 
Across  the  shadows  of  each  shelving  lawn, 
The  rising  sun,  with  low  and  level  ray 

Scatters  the  cold,  gray  phantoms  of  the  dawn. 
Like  ghosts  they  flee,  like  dreams  expire 

Within  the  elemental  fire 
Of  our  first  calm  October  day. 

A  day  all  zenith;  the  enclosing  air, 

Like  to  the  lens  of  a  vast  telescope, 
Shows  the  enameled  globe,  which  now  doth  wear 

Its  gayest  motley;  every  jutting  slope 
And  quiet  spire  appears  both  far  and  near, 
Seen  through  the  splendor  of  the  atmosphere. 

Something  Elysian, — a  faint  tang  of  joy, — 
Breathes  from  the  moisture  of  the  open  field, 

Recalling  Spring,  yet  Spring  with  no  alloy 
Of  heartache,  such  as  hovers  on  the  view 

Of  things  in  promise.     Here  is  harvest-yield; 

Old  Earth  hath  done  her  best  and  can  no  further  do. 


36 


The  yellowing  pages  of  Earth's  ledger  lie, 
In  new-cropped  acres,  open  to  the  sky; 
A  text  that  all  may  understand, 
With  margins  where  wild  vines  expand 
In  crimson  revelry. 

Beyond  the  valley  lies  a  ledge 

Of  rocky  pasture  and  a  tier 

Of  hemlock  and  of  juniper; 
And  close  to  the  embattled  edge, — 
Their  roots  embedded  in  the  stony  stairs, — 
The  aged  cedars  flaunt  their  burning  wares. 

Like  banners  in  a  gallery, 

They  hang  above  the  bright  ravine, 
Where  from  the  mountains  to  the  sea 

The  farms  and  villages  are  seen, 

All  clad  in  twinkling  sheen. 


37 


Above  our  heads  the  mountain  bleak 
Bears  his  cold  summit  to  the  view, 
As  one  in  scorn  of  earthly  mists, 
Who,  in  his  gesture,  seems  to  seek 
The  silent  depths  of  the  transparent  blue 
Where  nought  save  light  exists. 

There  penetrates 

Nor  sight  nor  mutter  from  the  world  below, 
Nor  sound  of  joy  or  woe; 
For  that  clear  realm  is  deaf  to  man's  debates. 
There  nought  save  Contemplation  ever  came; 
For  reason  is  extinguished  by  the  glow, 
And  passion  dies  within  its  parent  flame. 

Rays  of  religion,  shafts  of  power, 

From  that  eternal  upper  day 
Descend  on  man,  the  creature  of  an  hour, 

And  whirl  him  as  a  leaf  is  whirled  away. 
Born  to  phantasmal  contest,  he  survives 

A  moment  merely;  yet  the  fray, 
The  whirlwind,  seizes  other  lives, 

And,  raging  like  a  mountain  fire, 

Burns  on  with  inextinguishable  ire. 


38 


Here,  here,  from  this  serial  zone 

Flows  all  the  force  the  world  has  known, 

All  insight  and  all  sight, 

The  substance  of  all  just  resolves, 

Solid  and  pure; 

The  rest  is  lightning,  here  is  light: 
And  when  the  varied  earth  dissolves, 

This  shall  endure. 

But  see !  above  the  sinking  sun 

The  angel  of  the  west 

Has  set  his  star  against  the  mountain's  breast; 
October's  day  is  done. 
The  shadows  mount,  the  twilight  clear 

Shows  all  of  Autumn's  mellow  husk, 

Where  one  belated  teamster  in  the  dusk 
Circles  the  plain,  like  a  dark  charioteer 

Who  scatters  secretly  the  gleaming  seeds, 

And  drives  his  mystic  steeds 
Before  the  tread  of  the  pursuing  year. 


39 


AUTUMN    DEWS 

'T'HROW  open  the  shutters,  it's  seven  o'clock ! 
*    And  impertinent  crows  take  their  flight  at  the 

shock; 
Then  dropping  their  breakfast,  they  scoff  as  they 

pass 
O'er  the  blanket  of  dew  that  lies  white  on  the  grass. 

The  mists  from  the  shoulders  of  hillsides  are  slipping; 

The  low  Autumn  sun  burns  the  dew-drops  alive; 
And  barberry-bushes  with  rubies  are  dripping, 
And  gardners  are  heaping  dead  leaves  by  the  drive. 

O  haste  to  the  forest ! — the  forest  whose  fingers 
Are  clasping  dank,  green,  little  jewels  of  lawn: 
Perhaps  in  some  shadowy  clearing  still  lingers 
The  track  of  the  hare  and  the  flame  of  the  dawn. 


40 


TREES    IN    AUTUMN 

HPHE  poets  have  made  Autumn  sorrowful; 

*  I  find  her  joyous,  radiant,  serene. 
Her  pomp  is  hung  in  a  deep  azure  sky 
That  turns  about  the  world  by  day  and  night, 
Nor  loses  its  bright  charm. 
And  when  the  trees  resign  their  foliage, 
Loosing  their  leaves  upon  the  cradling  air 
As  liberally  as  if  they  ne'er  had  owned  them, — 
They  show  the  richer  for  the  nakedness 
That  weds  them  with  the  clarity  of  heav'n. 


41 


TAPS    AT    WEST    POINT 

HPHE  dim  and  wintry  river  lies 

*       Torpid  and  ice-bound,  like  a  giant  snake; 
And,  shouldering  round  his  course,  the  mountains  rise, 

Hedging  his  waters  to  a  frozen  lake; 
And  over  him  in  tattered  shrouds 
Drift  the  disconsolate,  low-stooping  clouds, 
That  slowly  form  and  climb  and  sheathe 

Some  dark  and  slippery  crag; 
Then  break  to  a  dissolving  wreath, 
Or  make  a  window  for  the  ground 
Where,  on  Fort  Putnam's  holy  mound 

Gleams  the  bright,  silent  flag. 


West  Point !    The  Eagle  of  the  West 
Has  searched  the  wilderness  to  find 
A  fitting  spot  to  build  a  martial  nest, 
Some  skyey  shelter  from  the  wind, 
A  refuge  from  the  north — 
Rock-bound,  inviolate ; — 
And  here  upon  the  mountain  ledge 
Facing  the  Highland  Gate, 
He  builds  his  eyrie  and  looks  forth 
Between  black  headlands  streaked  with  rills, 
And  sees  the  winding  river-edge 
Die  in  the  distance,  pillared  by  the  hills. 

But  now  the  nest  is  snow-clad:  the  abyss 
Smokes  like  a  crater,  and  from  east  to  west 
Pine-trees  are  whispering  across  the  crest 
In  little  puffs  and  jets  of  steam, 

That  meet  and  kiss 

A  thousand  feet  above  the  frozen  stream. 
"The  Storm  King  nods,"  they  say. — 
The  Storm  King  dreams ! — and  they 
Are  creatures  of  his  dream. 


43 


Upon  a  dainty  table-land 
Where  the  redundant  river  turns 
And  hugs  the  acre  to  its  breast, 
A  little  grave-yard  juts  above  the  strand, 
With  tombs  and  walks  and  quiet  urns, 
Trophies  and  tablets  quaintly  dressed 
And  graved  with  many  an  honored  name 
Of  those  who  drew  the  sword  or  nursed  the  flame 
Of  Mars,  among  whose  monuments  they  rest. 

And  there  upon  the  higher  ground, 

New-digged  and  strown  with  branches  green 
To  grace  the  trench  and  hide  the  mound, 

An  open  grave  is  seen. 
A  dirge,  low-blown  upon  sonorous  brass, 
Is  floating  up  the  glen, 
And  swells  to  triumph  as  they  pass 

With  heavy  tramp  of  armed  men 
That  shakes  the  dwellings  of  the  dead, 
Till  each  old  warrior  lifts  his  head 

To  hear  the  trumpet  speak  again. 


44 


Slowly  the  moving  pageant  looms 
With  emblems  dark  and  bright; 

And  bayonets  glance  among  the  mossy  tombs; 
The  bier,  the  flag,  the  mourners  come  in  sight, 

Framed  by  the  steady  musket-line 

That  makes  their  deeper  meanings  shine 
With  concentrated  light. 

And  hark,  a  volley  at  the  grave ! 

With  echoes  from  the  rifle-shock, — 

Voices  that  leap  from  rock  to  rock. 

They  mingle  with  the  murmurs  half  divine 
Of  Nature's  music  in  each  dark  ravine, 
And  speed  to  mountain  and  to  wave 
The  challenge  that  the  salvo  gave: — 

"Love,  Death,  Our  Country, — Honor,  Discipline.' 


45 


LINES    ON    THE    DEATH    OF 
BISMARCK 

(Reprinted  from  "The  Political  Nursery,"  midsummer  number,  1898) 

AT  midnight  Death  dismissed  the  chancellor, 
But  left  the  soul  of  Bismarck  on  his  face. 
Titanic,  in  the  peace  and  power  of  bronze, 
With  three  red  roses  loosely  in  his  grasp, 
Lies  the  Constructor.     His  machinery 
Revolving  in  the  wheels  of  destiny 
Rolls  onward  over  him.    Alive,  inspired, 
Vast,  intricate,  complete,  unthinkable, 
Nice  as  a  watch  and  strong  as  dynamite, 
An  empire  and  a  whirlwind,  on  it  moves, 
While  he  that  set  it  rolling  lies  so  still. 


46 


Unity  !     Out  of  chaos,  petty  courts, 

Princelings  and  potentates — thrift,  jealousy, 

Weakness,  distemper,  cowardice,  distrust, 

To  build  a  nation:  the  material — 

The  fibres  to  be  twisted — human  strands. 

One  race,  one  tongue,  one  instinct.     Unify 

By  banking  prejudice,  and,  gaining  power, 

Attract  by  vanity,  compel  by  fear. 

Arm  to  the  teeth:  your  friends  will  love  you  more, 

And  we  have  much  to  do  for  Germany. 

Organized  hatred,  that  is  unity. 

Prussia's  a  unit;  Denmark's  enmity 

Is  so  much  gain,  and  gives  us  all  the  North. 

Next,  humble  Austria:  a  rapid  stroke 

That  leaves  us  laurels  and  a  policy. 

Now  for  some  chance,  some — any  fluke  or  crime 

By  which  a  war  with  France  can  be  brought  on: 

And,  God  be  glorified,  the  thing  is  done. 

Organized  hatred.     That  foundation  reaches 

The  very  bottom  rock  of  Germany 

And  out  of  it  the  structure  rises  up 

Bristling  with  arms. 


47 


"But  you  forget  the  soul, 
"The  universal  shout,  the  Kaiser's  name, 
"Fatherland,  anthems,  the  heroic  dead, 
"The  discipline,  the  courage,  the  control, 
"The  glory  and  the  passion  and  the  flame — " 
Are  calculated  by  the  captain's  eye 
Are  used,  subdued,  like  electricity 
Turned  on  or  off,  are  set  to  making  roads, 
Or  building  monuments,  or  writing  verse, 
Twitched  by  the  inspired  whim  of  tyranny 
To  make  that  tyranny  perpetual 
And  kill  what  intellect  it  cannot  use. 

The  age  is  just  beginning,  yet  we  see 

The  fruits  of  hatred  ripen  hourly 

And  Germany's  in  bondage — muzzled  press, 

The  private  mind  suppressed, — while  shade  on  shade 

Is  darkened  o'er  the  intellectual  sky. 

And  world-forgotten,  outworn  crimes  and  cries 

With  dungeon  tongue  accost  the  citizen 

And  send  him  trembling  to  his  family. 

Thought  cannot  grasp  the  Cause:  'tis  in  the  abyss 
With  Nature's  secrets.     But,  gigantic  wreck, 
Thou  wast  the  Instrument !    And  thy  huge  limbs 
Cover  nine  kingdoms  as  thou  lie'st  asleep. 
48 


1914 

A  IAS,  too  much  we  loved  the  glittering  wares 
That  art  and  education  had  devised 
To  charm  the  leisure  of  philosophers; 

The  thought,  the  passion  have  been  undersized 

In  Europe's  over-educated  brain; 
And  while  the  savants  attitudinized, 

Excess  of  learning  made  their  learning  vain 
Till  Fate  broke  all  the  toys  and  cried, 
Begin  Again! 


49 


HEROES 

I  SEE  them  hasting  toward  the  light 
Where  war's  dim  watchfires  glow; 
The  stars  that  burn  in  Europe's  night 
Conduct  them  to  the  foe. 

As  when  a  flower  feels  the  sun 

And  opens  to  the  sky, 
Knowing  their  dream  has  just  begun 

They  hasten  forth  to  die. 

Be  it  the  mystery  of  love — 

Be  it  the  might  of  Truth- 
Some  wisdom  that  we  know  not  of 
Controls  the  heart  of  youth. 

All  that  philosophy  might  guess 
These  children  of  the  light 

In  one  bright  act  of  death  compress, 
Then  vanish  from  our  sight. 


50 


Like  meteors  on  a  midnight  sky 
They  break — so  clear,  so  brief — 

Their  glory  lingers  on  the  eye 
And  leaves  no  room  for  grief. 

And  when  to  joy  old  sorrows  turn, 
To  spring  war's  winter  long, 

Their  blood  in  every  heart  will  burn, 
Their  life  in  every  song. 


51 


TO    A    DOG 

T  happiness  dissolves.     It  fades  away, 
1      Ghost-like,  in  that  dim  attic  of  the  mind 
To  which  the  dreams  of  childhood  are  consigned. 
Here,  withered  garlands  hang  in  slow  decay, 
And  trophies  glimmer  in  the  dying  ray 
Of  stars  that  once  with  heavenly  glory  shined. 
But  you,  old  friend,  are  you  still  left  behind 
To  tell  the  nearness  of  life's  yesterday  ? 
Ah,  boon  companion  of  my  vanished  boy, 
For  you  he  lives;  in  every  sylvan  walk 
He  waits;  and  you  expect  him  everywhere. 
How  would  you  stir,  what  cries,  what  bounds  of  joy, 
If  but  his  voice  were  heard  in  casual  talk, 
If  but  his  footstep  sounded  on  the  stair ! 


IN    TIME    OF    WAR 

OORROW,  that  watches  while  the  body  sleeps, 

^  Parted  the  curtains  of  the  cruel  dawn 

And  glided  noiselessly  to  her  sad  seat 

Beside  my  pillow. — "Art  thou  there,"  I  muttered, 

"Spirit  of  silent  grief;   mute  prophetess 

That,  on  the  marble  furrows  of  thy  brow, 

Wearest  the  print  of  wisdom  and  of  peace  ? 

Art  thou  still  at  my  side,  thou  antique  nurse 

And  sybil  of  the  mind, — who  easily 

Enterest  the  prisons  of  humanity 

With  footfall  soft,  and  walkest  in  the  glooms 

Where  none  save  thee  may  come  ?     Shield  me  to-day ! 

And,  when  the  sun's  insufferable  finger 

Moves  o'er  the  wainscot,  and  his  dreaded  ray 

Sears  the  unsheathed  soul,  O  mighty  Spirit, 

Darken  mine  eyes  till  night  be  come  again ! " 


53 


MAY,    1917 

HTHE  earth  is  damp:  in  everything 

*     I  taste  the  bitter  breath  of  pallid  spring. 
Hark  !     In  the  air  a  fanning  sound, 
Like  distant  beehives. — Ah,  the  woods  awake; 
And  finding  they  are  naked,  cast  around 
A  mist,  like  that  which  trembles  on  the  lake. 

The  forest  murmurs,  shudders,  sings 

On  pipes  and  strings, 

With  harp  and  flute; 

And  then  turns  coy, 

As  if  ashamed  to  show  its  joy, 
And  in  a  flush  of  happiness  grows  mute. 


Alas,  the  spring !    Ah,  liquid  light, 
Your  vistas  of  transparent  green 
Fall  on  my  spirit  like  a  blight. 
The  tapestries  you  hang  on  high 
Are  like  a  pageant  to  a  sick  man's  eye, 

Or  sights  in  fever  seen. 
Behind  your  bowers  and  your  blooms 
Volcanic  desolation  looms; 

Your  life  doth  death  express; 
Each  leaf  proclaims  a  blackened  waste, 
Each  tree,  some  paradise  defaced, 

Each  bud,  a  wilderness. 
And  all  your  lisping  notes  are  drowned 
By  one  deep  murmur  underground 

That  tells  us  joy  is  fled, 

Love,  innocence,  the  heart's  desire, 

The  flashing  of  Apollo's  lyre, — 

Beauty  herself  is  dead. 


55 


In  all  the  valleys  of  the  earth, — 
Save  for  the  dead, — no  wreath  is  hung. 
Long,  long  ago  the  sounds  of  mirth 

Died  on  man's  tongue. 
Love  is  an  interrupted  song, 
And  life  a  broken  lute; 
Time's  pendulum  has  stopped:  a  throng 
Of  huddling  moments  press  along 

Untimed,  in  mad  pursuit, 
And  into  days  and  months  are  whirled, 
As  in  a  dream  of  pain. 
Chaos  has  wrecked  the  outer  world, 
Chaos  invades  the  brain. 
The  sounds,  the  sights,  the  scents  of  spring 
Awake  that  sullen  suffering 
Which  opium  soothes  in  vain, — 
Like  the  sad  dawn  of  dread  relief 
That  tells  the  greatness  of  his  grief 
To  him  that  is  insane. 


56 


Would  I  had  perished  with  the  past ! 
Would  I  had  shared  the  fate 
Of  those  who  heard  the  trumpet-call 
And  rode  upon  the  blast, — 
Who  stopped  not  to  debate, 

Nor  strove  to  save, 
But  giving  life,  gave  all, 
Casting  their  manhood  as  a  man  might  cast 

A  rose  upon  a  grave. 

Would  that  like  them  beneath  the  sod  I  lay, 
Beneath  the  glistening  grass, 
Beneath  the  flood  of  things  that  come,  and  pass, 
Beckon,  and  shine  and  fade  away. 


57 


ODE 

ON  THE  SAILING  OF  OUR  TROOPS  FOR  FRANCE 

(Dedicated  to  President  Wilson) 

GO  fight  for  Freedom,  Warriors  of  the  West ! 
At  last  the  word  is  spoken :   Go ! 
Lay  on  for  Liberty.     'Twas  at  her  breast 

The  tyrant  aimed  his  blow; 
And  ye  were  wounded  with  the  rest 
In  Belgium's  overthrow. 

The  anguish  of  the  night  is  past, 
The  months  of  torment,  when  the  roar 
Of  distant  battles  rolled  against  our  shore, 

Each  summons  sounding  louder  than  the  last; 
And  in  the  surge  and  swell 
We  heard  the  deep  vibrations  of  a  bell, 

The  tongue  of  Fate,  that  tolling  on  the  blast, 
Repeated  o'er  and  o'er 

" Awake  !  your  horoscope  is  cast; 
The  Old  World  and  the  New  shall  live  apart  no  more. 

Awake  !  the  Future  claims  you.     Europe's  soul 
Hangs  in  the  balance,  and  the  gods  contrive 


58 


That  without  her  thou  never  canst  be  whole, 
Nor  she  without  thee  save  her  soul  alive. 

"Like  to  the  sleeping  hero  dost  thou  lie, 

Whose  father's  gear  the  nymphs,  beneath  a  mound, 
Concealed,  while  centaurs  watched  his  infancy 

Till  honor's  great  occasion  should  be  found. 
Awake !  the  virgins  perish,  monsters  rage; 

The  earth  is  mastered  by  Hell's  Overlord; 
Accept  the  manhood  of  thine  heritage: 

Behold  the  shield,  the  sandals  and  the  sword." 

The  dying  thunder  of  the  ocean's  voice 
Left  music  on  the  air.     The  sleeper  stirred, 

As  one  who  in  a  dream  must  make  a  choice 
Of  pleasure  mixed  with  pain. 

Something  he  muttered  like  a  broken  word; 

Then  heaved  his  length  and  seemed  to  sleep  again. 

And  still  the  awful  weight  of  that  recurrent  sound 

Smote  on  our  shores  and  seemed  to  shake  the  ground. 

So  long,  before  our  lips,  fate  held  the  cup, — 

So  long  we  waited  for  the  dawn, — 
We  scarcely  breathed  or  dared  look  up 


59 


For  fear  that  draught  of  life  should  be  withdrawn. 
Vain  fears !  the  stars  that  shined  upon  our  birth 
Had  made  us  freedom's  champions  on  the  earth. 

Thanks  be  to  God,  our  page  of  history 
Flashes  with  all  one  lightning;  one  design 
From  first  to  last  appears  in  every  line, 
Which,  being  noted,  makes  the  tale  divine, 

But  being  missed  or  slighted,  all  becomes 

A  meaningless  and  aimless  revery, — 

A  tale  of  moving  mobs  and  swords  and  drums, 

A  maze  without  a  key, — 
A  history  of  pebbles  which  the  sea 
Disturbs  and  rearranges  endlessly. 

Time  was,  the  world  a  vision  saw. 

A  faith  was  born  in  nations  far  away 
From  whom  our  life  and  mind  we  draw, — 

A  hope,  as  when  the  earliest  ray 
Of  peeping  dawn  predicts  the  day. 

The  ancient  peoples  of  the  time-worn  earth 

Divined  the  meaning  of  our  birth 
Before  our  life  began: 
The  Vision  was  America, 

The  Faith  was  faith  in  man. 


60 


Thus,  when  our  fathers  crossed  the  sea 

To  found  a  state  that  should  become 
The  Capitol  of  Liberty, 

And  Freedom's  home, 
The  hopes  of  Europe  with  them  came, 
And  in  the  new  republic's  name 
Pseans  were  chanted,  garlands  hung; 
The  Old  World  praised  the  great  event, 
And  blessed  the  untrodden  continent 

That  did  a  shrine  provide, 
Where  mercy,  justice,  strength  and  truth, 
In  new-found  and  immortal  youth 

Forever  should  abide. 
America  became  a  myth 
That  Europe's  wise-men  conjured  with; 
And  prayers  went  up  in  many  a  tongue, 
And  seers  dreamed,  and  poets  sung 

And  sages  prophesied. 
And  lo,  before  the  echoes  died 

Of  that  great  paean,  there  arose 
A  state  that  to  the  dream  replied, 

And  gave  the  saints  repose. 


61 


Thanks  be  to  God  who  chose  of  old 

The  masters  of  our  race, 
And  stamped  an  image  on  the  mold 

Which  time  cannot  efface. 
As  if  to  show  what  Nature  can, — 

When,  teeming  in  expansive  ease 
She  overbrims  her  earlier  plan, 

Outbursts  all  ancient  boundaries 
Of  farm  and  kingdom,  race  and  creed, — 
Creation  gave  the  world  a  man 

To  meet  the  larger  need. 
Nor  came  he  unto  us  alone, 
The  world's  new  hero,  Washington. 

Him  did  those  opening  thunders  call 

That  smote  our  shores  with  grinding  power; 
His  name  was  in  the  crash  and  fall 

Of  every  Belgian  tower. 
By  bloody  pool,  by  reeking  wall, 

'Mid  countless  deeds  of  dark  offence, 
That  name  went  up  with  every  cry 

Of  prostrate  innocence. 
For  when  Incarnate  Tyranny 


Streamed  over  lovely  France, 
And  homesteads,  roofless  to  the  sky, 
Looked  up  to  God  askance, 

His  tattered  portrait  shared  the  doom 
Of  holy  pictures  in  the  gloom 
Of  each  abandoned  peasant  home. 
Here  by  the  lowliest  hearts  of  earth, 
While  generations  came  and  went, 
His  face  had  shone  o'er  death  and  birth, 
And  mingled  with  the  hopes  and  fears, — 
The  household  words,  the  merriment,  the  tears,- 
The  deep  religious  sentiment 
That  tells  men  God  doth  not  forget. 
So  burned  he,  and  his  lamp  is  burning  yet. 

Ah  France,  thou  art  the  home  of  Memory, 
The  Mother  of  the  Muses !    In  thy  hands 
The  Past  is  safe:  each  peasant  holds  a  key 
To  archives  which  the  savant  understands, 

And  all  conspire  to  guard  a  treasury, 
Where  flock  the  enthusiasts  of  other  lands 

To  dip  their  minds  in  thee. 
France,  France  herself  doth  not  forget ! 


63 


So  mused  I, — wondering  what  we, 

The  lost  tribe  of  the  new  world,  had  to  set 

Against  such  piety. 

Have  we  no  saints  ?     Within  our  atrium  stands 
No  altar  to  the  great  of  other  lands  ? 

And,  as  I  question,  there  appears, — 
An  image, — pictures,  statues,  prints. 
The  earliest  memories  of  my  earliest  years 
Are  filled  with  lithographs  and  mezzotints 

That  on  each  wall  and  stair  and  stoop  were  met. 
Ay,  let  France  search  our  homes !     She'll  find 
In  many  a  manse,  in  many  a  nook 
In  every  old-time  picture  book, 
In  every  pious  and  ingenuous  mind, — 
In  simple  folk  of  the  ancestral  kind, — 
The  shade  of  Lafayette. 

Another  name,  a  sacred  name  there  is, — 
A  nature  more  than  human,  a  great  mind, — 
Less  like  to  Csesar  than  to  Socrates, 
Which  on  our  native  roster  ye  shall  find. 
'Twas  liberty  that  gave  him  to  mankind; 


64 


And  as  her  soldier  fell  he,  to  the  last 

Drawing  from  her  the  light  by  which  he  shined, 
And  knitting  up  his  legend  with  the  past. 

Subdued  to  contemplation's  wand 

He  set  his  compass  by  a  star 

And  pondered  ever  the  beyond 

That  lay  behind  the  veils  of  war. 
The  Fate  of  Man,  the  mystic  aim, 

The  unimaginable  end, 
Floats  like  an  angel  in  the  flame 

Of  every  word  he  spoke  or  penned. 

Not  unto  us  alone  came  he, 

This  prophet  of  humanity. 
His  was  that  fight  at  dawn  that  left  us  free 

To  meet  the  issue  of  these  darker  days. 
Then  too  we  battled  for  posterity. 

And  had  we  lost,  the  world  to-day  could  raise 
Its  head  no  longer.     Thus  doth  God  appraise 

So  carefully  the  weights  in  either  scale 

That  every  ounce  must  count  to  make  the  truth 
prevail. 


65 


Such  are  our  beacons;  near  them  stand 

A  lesser  yet  illumined  band, 
Who  of  the  self-same  springs  have  drunk, 

And  through  whose  minds  the  stream  has  sunk 

To  water  all  the  land. 
The  old  heroic  creed  is  taught 

In  every  hamlet,  grange  and  town, 
And  children  lisp  the  giant  thought 

Of  Franklin  and  of  Hamilton. 
The  young  were  never  steeped  before 
So  deep  in  governmental  lore. 

What  wonder  that  each  shining  rank 

Of  martial  striplings  takes  its  way 
Handsome  as  Hermes,  and  as  frank 

As  lads  upon  a  holiday ! 
Think  ye  they  do  not  understand 
The  mighty  thing  they  have  in  hand? — 

'Tis  the  Religion  of  their  land. 

And  when  that  bell-like  thunder-sound 
Crashed  on  our  shores  and  cried,  Awake ! 
Thought  ye  no  answering  lightning  should  be  found? 
Behold  the  answer !    Look  around. 


66 


Yea,  and  our  winds  to  Europe  take 
Not  soldiers  merely — but  the  mind, 
The  deathless  part  that  doth  consist 
In  our  soul's  message, — the  debate 
Of  life  with  death  and  love  with  hate, 
Framed  by  our  great  protagonist 

To  documents  of  state. 
They  speak  our  spirit;  for  he  knew 
The  magic  horn  to  wind 
Of  Lincoln  and  of  Washington:  he  drew 
As  clear  a  note  as  ever  trumpet  blew, 
While  round  the  world  the  music  flew 

That  unified  mankind. 

Go,  Western  Warriors !    Take  the  place 
The  ages  have  assigned  you  in  a  strife 
Which  to  have  died  in  were  enough  of  life; 
For  you  there  waits  a  quest 

Such  as  no  paladin  or  hero  knew 
Of  all  who  lifted  sword  or  wielded  mace 
Since  George  the  Dragon  slew; 
For  you  a  sacramental  feast 
Too  rich,  too  happy,  too  fulfilled 
Of  all  that  man  e'er  craved  or  God  hath  willed, 

Too  blessed  to  be  offered  save  to  you. 


67 


A    WAR    WEDDING 

r  I  ^HE  dreamy  earth  is  flooded  o'er 
*       With  warm  and  hazy  light, — 
September's  latest  boon,  before 

She  feels  the  hoar  frost  in  the  night; 
And,  pausing  with  a  sober  frown, 
Nips  the  first  floweret  from  her  summer  crown. 

But  who  are  these  upon  the  rising  ground 

Where  the  old  graveyard  guards  the  vale, 
Who  talk  in  whispers  clustering  round 
The  old  stone  church,  where  teams  are  found 

With  horses  tethered  to  the  rail, 
And  village  lads  and  farmers  at  the  gate  ? 

Surely  some  funeral  of  state; — 
So  reverently  they  stand  without  a  sound, 

So  decently  they  wait. 


68 


And  now  the  organ  mutters  and  a  hymn 

Floats  in  the  elmtops.    From  the  doors  thrown  wide, 
Issue,  as  radiant  as  the  seraphim, 

A  handsome  lad  in  khaki  and  his  bride. 
And  next  behind  the  happy  pair 
The  Captain-cousin  and  best  man 
Walks  with  a  martial,  business  air, 

Heading  the  merry-moving  van 
Of  half -grown  girls  with  ribboned  hair, — 
Brides-maids  or  sisters, — and  a  few 

Odd,  wholesome,  savage  boys; 
(And  if  a  waistcoat  is  askew 
A  mother  adds  a  touch  or  two 

To  give  the  victim  equipoise). 

Neighbors  mingle,  chat  and  pass, 

The  father  proud,  the  adoring  friend, 
The  Dominie,  the  farmer's  lass, — 

The  village  life  from  end  to  end, — 
With  happiness  on  every  face. 

And  something  sacred  and  benign 

Out  of  these  faces  seem  to  shine: 
Some  god  is  in  the  place ! 


69 


Methinks  I  see  him !     One  we  used  to  know 
Ere  sorrow  overspread  the  land, — 
The  god  we  met  on  every  hand 

And  worshipped  long  ago. 

Ah,  mark  him,  there  before  the  rest ! 

The  youngster  in  the  azure  vest 
And  tunic  white  as  snow. 

See  the  late,  tiny  rosebuds  round  his  brow ! 

Their  ardent  breath  is  whispering  his  name, 

See  on  his  forehead  the  clear  pointed  flame; 
While  from  his  torch  the  sparklets  blow 

Kindling  all  hearts  that  follow  in  his  train. 
It's  Hymen,  Hymen,  Hymen,  come  again ! 


70 


RETROSPECTION 

WHEN  we  all  lived  together 
In  the  farm  among  the  hills, 
And  the  early  summer  weather 
Had  flushed  the  little  rills; 

And  Jack  and  Tom  were  playing 

Beside  the  open  door, 
And  little  Jane  was  maying 

On  the  slanting  meadow  floor; 

And  mother  clipped  the  trellis, 

And  father  read  his  book 
By  the  little  attic  window, — 

So  close  above  the  brook: 

How  little  did  we  reckon 
Of  ghosts  that  flit  and  pass, 

Of  fates  that  nod  and  beckon 
In  the  shadows  on  the  grass; 


71 


Of  beauty  soon  deflowered, 
Engulfed,  and  borne  away, — 

And  youth  that  sinks  devoured 
In  the  chasm  of  a  day ! 

Courageous  and  undaunted, 

As  in  a  golden  haze 
We  lived  a  life  enchanted, 

Nor  stopped  to  count  the  days. 

We  that  were  in  the  story 
Saw  not  the  magic  light, 

The  pathos,  and  the  glory 
That  shines  on  me  to-night. 


OUR    SAILOR 

yes,  he  came  again !    But  'twas  not  he. 
A  youth  no  longer  ours,  nay,  taller,  older; 
A  serious  young  ensign,  stern,  yet  gay; 
Shy  as  the  sea-bird,  driven  by  a  storm 
Into  the  doorway  of  a  fisher's  hut, 
Who  proudly  suffers  every  fond  caress, 
And  loves  the  warmth  and  welcome;  but  his  eye 
Roves  the  tempestuous  billows  of  that  world 
To  which  his  life  takes  wing.    At  eventide 
He  fluttered  in,  and  with  the  earliest  dawn 
His  form  had  vanished  o'er  the  vaporous  sea. 


73 


AUGUSTUS    PEABODY 
GARDNER 

I  SEE — within  my  spirit — mystic  walls, 

*     And  slender  windows  casting  hallowed  light 

Along  dim  aisles  where  many  a  shadow  falls 

On  text  and  trophy,  effigy  and  tomb; 
And  here  each  youthful  hero  and  old  knight 

Sleeps  on  his  marble  couch,  while  overhead 
The  tattered  banners  shed  their  bloom 

Of  glory  o'er  the  dead. 

Here,  raised  in  brass  or  graved  in  stone, 

And  dated  with  the  passing  year, 
Are  names — companions  I  have  known, 

Whose  hands  I  clasped  but  yesterday, 
Whose  voices  ring  within  my  ear: 

And  friends  of  earlier  epochs  far  away, 
Whose  spirits  answer  to  my  call 

Of  names  familiar  as  my  own, 
Written  upon  this  chapel  wall. 

How  strange  to  find  them  here ! 


74 


So  soon,  so  early  sanctified, 

They  lie  within  the  nation's  heart, 
Calm,  safe,  those  sacred  tombs  beside 

Of  earlier  saints  who  kept  the  faith 
And  waged  the  battle  of  their  life 
As  'twere  a  part  of  that  celestial  strife 

That  makes  a  gain  of  death. 

Ah,  we  ourselves  have  slept, 

And  we,  who  but  half  knew  them,  find  them  here, 
Where  into  light  they  stept, 

Upon  the  signal  that  the  Angel  gave — 
Like  him  who  now  upon  his  passing  bier 

Moves  into  History.     O  blessed  War, 
That  sends  a  blast  of  brightness  from  the  grave 

To  show  the  souls  of  mortals  as  they  are ! 


75 


MAY,    1918 

'T'HE  moon  at  midnight  quenched  her  vaporous  light, 
*      Leaving  the  stars  but  faintly  bright 

Like  tapers  that  burn  ill; 
And  in  the  fragrant  bosom  of  the  night 
The  summer  breezes  round  the  garden  creep, 

Now  moving  and  now  still, 
Nursing  the  buds  their  care  has  laid  to  sleep; 
Or  tip-toe  softly  to  my  window-sill 

And  whisper  through  the  room, 
To  tell  that  close  at  hand 
The  lilies-of-the-valley  stand, 
And  lilacs  are  in  bloom. 

A  breathing  night, — no  ray,  no  beam, — 
But  shadowy  stillness  over  everything. 
I  listen  to  the  flooding  of  a  stream 

That  'mid  the  joyous  secrets  of  the  spring 

Subdues  his  murmuring; 
And  in  the  silence  cool 

Huddles  his  waves,  till,  at  a  bound, 
I  hear  as  in  a  gleam  of  sound 

The  gathered  waters  plunging  to  their  pool. 


76 


Once  more  the  silence;   then  the  sound  again! 

I  cannot  say  how  long  I  stood 

And  listened  to  that  velvet  flood; 
Perhaps  the  stream  poured  lethe  on  my  brain — 
Displaced  the  stars — for  in  their  train 

I  saw  the  French  Cathedrals  looming  by, 

Like  citadels  that  beaconed  on  the  night 

Or  swinging  urns  that  scattered  golden  light 

In  the  surrounding  sky. 
Chartres,  Beauvais,  Rouen — I  could  mark 

Each  Gothic  lantern  of  the  mind 
That,  kindling  in  the  ages  dark, 

Rose,  flamed  and  left  behind 
The  sacred  shell  of  a  mysterious  ark, 
The  treasure  and  the  solace  of  mankind. 

Voices  they  have, — a  language  of  their  own 
That  floats  in  arches,  domes  and  spires; 

And  many  a  traveler  and  pilgrim  young, 
Wandering  unconscious  and  alone, 

Has  heard  the  accents  of  the  ancient  choirs 
Still  echoing  in  their  avenues  of  stone 

From  men  who  wrought  and  dreamed  and  sung 

And  fought  and  prayed  in  that  forgotten  tongue. 


77 


Again  my  eyes  upon  the  night  were  turned. 

The    central    darkness    bloomed,    and — robed    in 

state — 
While  her  great  works  about  her  burned — 

Sate  France  enthroned  and  incoronate ! 

But  ah !  the  vision  fades :  a  sky  of  lead 

Has  drunk  the  apparition.     In  such  pain 
As  breaks  the  rest  of  one  whose  love  is  dead 

I  wake  to  greet  the  vacant  world  again. 
The  garden  is  a  blank.     Unquiet  birds 

Are  warbling  gently  in  the  rain. 
Sweet  are  their  voices,  desolate  the  words 

That  from  their  little  throats  they  pour, 

Chanting,  like  choristers,  a  requiem: 
"Beauvais  and  Chartres  and  Rouen  yet  remain; 

Rheims  is  no  more; 
And  Amiens  is  fading  like  thy  dream. 

Alas,  when  all  is  done 
What  shall  the  dayspring  find  to  shine  upon  ? " 


78 


LINES 

READ  AT  THE  NEW  YORK  CITY  HALL  MEETING 
ON  LAFAYETTE  DAY,   1918 

AGrAIN  we  gather  here, 
Beneath  the  aegis  of  a  sacred  name, 
To  hold  our  feast,  and  with  our  altar-flame 
Signal  the  passage  of  the  furtive  year. 
Alas,  how  small  our  gifts,  how  light  appear 
Our  vows,  our  songs,  the  words  that  we  declaim ! 
While  o'er  the  tortured  nations  from  afar 
Rolls  the  hot  breath  of  universal  war. 

Yet  must  I  speak — Again  we  dedicate 
Ourselves,  our  children  and  our  country's  fame 
To  Her  from  whom  our  earliest  welcome  came. 
Once  more — but  now  in  arms — we  kneel, 
Like  Joan  of  Arc  in  shining  steel 

A  Sword  to  consecrate 
To  France,  and  to  the  Cause  that  makes  her  great ! 


79 


And  even  while  we  hold  our  holiday 

The  Allied  ranks  in  fierce  array 

Press  on  the  foe  like  huntsman  on  the  prey: 

The  Wild  Boar  of  the  North  is  brought  to  bay ! 

Hark,  did  you  hear  the  triumph  in  the  air? 
Horns  and  halloos — a  universal  shout. 
The  hunters  have  him:  he  has  turned  about: 
The  Teuton  beast  is  lurching  toward  his  lair. 
The  boar  is  sorely  wounded;  but  beware ! 
Strike,  when  you  strike,  to  kill !    For  in  his  eye 
Cunning  and  Hatred  shine,  a  ghastly  pair ! 
Which  of  these  passions  is  the  last  to  die, 
When  both  are  linked  together  by  despair? 

'Tis  not  alone  the  havoc;  but  his  breath 
Spreads  desecration  o'er  mankind. 

Beware  lest  in  his  gasp  of  death 
The  German  leave  behind 

A  sting  to  hurt  the  heart  of  man 

Worse  than  his  living  fury  can — 
The  poison  of  his  mind. 


80 


When  shall  the  shepherd  sup  in  peace  once  more, 

Or  tend  his  trellis  unafraid 
While  children  play  about  the  farmhouse  door, 

Or  cows  at  even  watch  the  river 

Beneath  the  elm-tree's  shade? 

Is  heart's  ease  gone  forever? 
Must  there  be  newer  anguish,  endless  strife  ? 
Ah,  huntsman  draw  the  knife 
That  kills  the  creature  at  the  core ! 
Plunge  the  bright  truncheon  and  restore 

The  bloom  to  human  life. 


81 


THE    ARMISTICE 

WHEN  from  a  mighty  storm  far  out  at  sea 
Roll  in  the  glassy  and  gigantic  waves, — 
Wreck-laden  Tritons,  bearing  in  their  arms 
The  wastage  of  a  world; — and  o'er  the  scene 
Rises  the  sun-god;  and  along  the  shore 
People  with  uplift  eyes  await  the  fleet, 
Or  falling  on  their  knees,  stretch  up  their  hands 
To  the  restored  serenity  of  heaven, 
For  in  their  hearts  the  storm  is  running  still; 
So  we  await  our  warships  on  the  flood, 
Brimming  with  laureled  legions  and  the  gleam 
Of  gun  and  helmet,  and  the  tattered  flags 
That  tinge  the  sea  with  crimson,  telling  of  those 
Left  sleeping  on  the  battlefields  of  France, 
Or  on  the  piney  ridges  of  Lorraine 
Holding  the  steeps  for  freedom.    Shall  we  not 
Take  to  our  hearts  the  living  and  the  dead 
In  one  long,  proud  embrace  upon  the  shore? 


ROOSEVELT 

[Lines  read  at  the  Harvard  Club,  New  York,  on  February  9,  1919] 

TIFE  seems  belittled  when  a  great  man  dies; 

*— '  The  age  is  cheapened  and  time's  furnishings 

Stare  like  the  trappings  of  an  empty  stage. 

Ring  down  the  curtain !    We  must  pause,  go  home 

And  let  the  plot  of  the  world  reshape  itself 

To  comprehensive  form.     Roosevelt  dead  ! 

The  genial  giant  walks  the  earth  no  more, 

Grasping  the  hands  of  all  men,  deluging 

Their  hearts,  like  Pan,  with  bright  Cyclopean  fire 

That  dizzied  them  at  times,  yet  made  them  glad. 

Where  dwells  he  ?     Everywhere !    In  cottages, 
And  by  the  forge  of  labor  and  the  desk 
Of  science.     The  torn  spelling  book 
Is  blotted  with  the  name  of  Roosevelt, 
And  like  a  myth  he  floats  upon  the  winds 
Of  India  and  Ceylon.     His  brotherhood 
Includes  the  fallen  kings.     Himself  a  king, 
He  left  a  stamp  upon  his  countrymen 
Like  Charlemagne. 


83 


Yes,  note  the  life  of  kings ! 
A  throne's  a  day  of  judgment  in  itself, 
And  shows  the  flaw  within  the  emerald. 
For  every  king  must  seem  more  than  he  is; 
Ambition  holds  her  prism  before  his  eye, 
Burlesques  his  virtues,  rides  upon  his  car 
Clouded  with  false  effulgence,  till  the  man 
Loses  his  nature  in  a  second  self, 
Which  is  his  role.    Yet  Theodore  survived — 
Resumed  his  natural  splendor  as  he  sank 
Like  Titan  in  the  ocean. 

The  great  war 

Was  all  a  fight  for  Paris — must  she  fall 
And  be  a  heap  of  desolation  ere 
Relief  could  reach  her?    Sad  America 
Dreamed  in  the  distance  as  a  charmed  thing 
Till  Roosevelt,  like  Roland,  blew  his  horn. 
Alone  he  did  it !    By  his  personal  will. 
Alone — till  others  echoed — bellowing 
From  shore  to  shore  across  the  continent, 
Like  a  sea  monster  to  the  sleeping  seals 
Of  Pribylov.     Then,  slowly  wakening, 
The  flock  prepared  for  war.     'Twas  just  in  time ! 
One  blast  the  less,  and  our  preparedness 

Had  come  an  hour  too  late. 
84 


Ay,  traveller, 

Who  wanderest  by  the  bridges  of  the  Seine, 
Past  palaces  and  churches,  marts  and  streets, 
Whose  names  are  syllables  in  history, 
'Twas  Roosevelt  saved  Paris.    There  she  stands ! 
Look  where  you  will — the  towers  of  Notre  Dame, 
The  quays,  the  columns,  the  Triumphal  Arch — 
To  those  who  know,  they  are  his  monument. 


85 


THE    MORAL    OF    HISTORY 

A  LL  is  one  issue,  every  skirmish  tells, 
**  And  war  is  but  the  picture  in  the  story; 
The  plot's  below:  from  time  to  time  upwells 

A  scene  of  blood  and  glory, 
That  makes  us  understand  the  allegory, — 
A  lurid  flash  of  verse, — and  at  its  close 

Recurring,  undiscipherable  prose. 


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5    1941 


LD  21-100m-7,'40 (6936s) 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


